


at the end of everything, hold onto anything

by waterloggedroots



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Gen, Hospitalization, Hospitals, How Do I Tag, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Self-Harm, Sibling Rivalry, Suicide Attempt, Zoe's POV, also Evan's not in this one sorry folks, i decided i wanted to focus more on the dynamics of the murphy family, i did previously write an Evan-centric piece though if you want to check that out, i haven't been hospitalized for a suicide attempt so this is probably inaccurate, i kinda wrote zoe and connor's relationship based loosely on my relationship with my brother, lmk if anything else needs to be tagged, more specifically the relationship between zoe and connor, so if some things seem ooc or deviating from canon that's probably why, so yeah he got pushed aside sorry Ev, uhhhhh, why do i write about things i have little to no experience with
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-03 23:00:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15828687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterloggedroots/pseuds/waterloggedroots
Summary: In the wake of Connor's failed suicide attempt, a grieving, damaged family is left to pick up the broken pieces.





	1. our resignation only comes on beaten paths

**Author's Note:**

> An AU in which Connor's suicide attempt fails. In this universe Evan and Connor haven't met, instead leaving room to focus solely on the dysfunctional dynamic of the Murphy family, and their way of attempting to heal in the face of tragedy.
> 
> I took a few artistic liberties (e.g., backstory and current events have been slightly altered), and obviously it being an AU means plot details are changed, but I adhered to the script for most of the details. Trigger warning for suicide attempt; please don't read if you are sensitive to dark subjects, and stay safe!
> 
> Chapter title is from [Homesick by Sleeping At Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jmG4JI0UCOQ).
> 
> (Title's a reference to the game _Night in the Woods_ in case anyone was wondering)

It was Wednesday. August 13th, 2014. 6:32pm. The date's permanently ingrained in her head, whether she wants it that way or not, whether she doesn't mind remembering it or if she'd rather forget about it entirely, let it wash away like a sand castle lost to the ever-present tides of the ocean, not a trace left behind.

She'd only barely walked through the door, her mother halfway up the stairs, calling to Connor that dinner's ready. The house was quiet for once as her mother trudged the rest of the way up the stairs, no furious screaming or slamming doors or blasting deafening bass music, or even a simple " _Leave me alone!"_ hollered loud enough for them to hear. Thinking about it in hindsight, the relative silence should have been more of a jarring red flag, but in the moment she was content to bask in the unusual peace, something she hadn't had the pleasure of experiencing in a while. She set her bag down on the counter, and was fixing herself a plate when she heard a thump from upstairs, followed by her mother's scream.

The surprise froze her in place for a few seconds, her blood running cold as dread spread through her body. Before she could really process what was driving her, before she could work her mind around what was happening, she was dropping everything to bolt up the stairs, taking them two at a time, her heart thumping rapidly in her chest.

It looked like a crime scene. It _was_ a crime scene, in a way. The overwhelming stench of pot and the faint smell of blood hit her like a brick wall as she reached the landing, and she almost wished she _hadn't_ come to investigate when she came screeching to a halt in the doorway, the sickening metallic scent coupled with the smell of vomit filling her nostrils.

Connor was motionless, unresponsive, deathly still as he laid on his side in a pool of his own blood and puke. Pill bottles littered the floor, some standing upright, a couple tipped over and empty, one half full and spilling its contents all over the carpet. The blade was still cradled gently between his fingers, a soft and misplaced gesture in the wake of such a painful and violently self-destructive scene.

She couldn't tear her eyes away, unable to make sense of it all. Her mother's crying sounded miles away; suddenly there was a hand on her shoulder, guiding her away from the doorway, but she just continued to stare as she slumped against the opposite wall, sliding to the floor. Her mother was sobbing and her father yelling, demanding to know what happened, but she heard none of it. Nothing but the pounding in her own ears, the pounding that just gave way to nothing, even as her parent's mouths continued to move. Sirens were wailing, paramedics storming through the door and stomping up the stairs, then a woman was crouching down beside her, talking to her and asking her questions, and all she heard was white noise. She had eyes only for the scene in front of her, for the fragile body lying still on the carpet, with no signs of life.

Uniform-clad legs crossed her field of vision, and then everything else seemed to just fade away.

  


* * *

  


Hospitals are Zoe's least favorite of places, naturally. Every time she's visited in the past, it was either due to her own illness or that of a family member; each encounter came with varying results, but all the same, she's come to associate it with sadness and sickness and death. Nothing good _ever_ happens in a hospital, and every time she comes, she wonders how the people here can stand it. Amidst the rational people like her, the sad and the grieving and the angry, there's smiles and cheerful faces, nurses with tinkling laughs and doctors with joyful expressions. Amidst all the death and melancholy, she wonders how the employees can come here day in and day out, to a place of such suffocating hopelessness and sterility, and not utterly lose it.

This place has always only ever been a place of negativity, of sorrow and illness and decease. Now, it's machinery beeping in her ear, a hard chair beneath her weight. It's the quiet whispers of her father and mother who sit against the adjacent wall, hovering over the sterile hospital bed. It's the weak rise and fall of a chest clad in a cheap hospital gown. It's sterile white bandages covering both arms, wrist to elbow. It's black fingernail polish, chipped and fading. It's greasy, unkempt hair, flayed out across a pristine pillowcase. It's hollow cheekbones and deathly pale skin, almost translucent. It's wires and tubes and needles and equipment, strung together like the crime scene of a lynching victim. So many machines, all to keep one heart beating.

She doesn't know how to feel. She has so many conflicting memories of him, of her brother, of this _thing_ he's become. Maybe something had clicked in his brain, something came to light, or maybe this version of him had always been there, slowly seeping in, unnoticed and unobserved.

She remembers their first trip to the zoo, how his frightened face had recoiled when a gorilla walked up to the glass his nose was pressed against. She remembers visiting the orchard near her house, how they would fly around their little R.C. plane until their dad crashed it into the creek. She remembers the first time they went to an amusement park, shrieking with laughter as they rode their first roller coaster together. She remembers climbing onto the bus with him for the first day of school, nervous and excited for the journey ahead of them. She remembers clamoring over the jungle gym together and pushing each other on the swings, him not caring if they're seen together or not, unlike typical older siblings. She remembers Connor taking down a kid twice his size who'd been bullying her for her lunch money, being suspended as a result but turning around to proudly point out to her his newly missing tooth instead of being bitter about his punishment. She remembers studying together, she remembers the way he'd chew on the end of his pencil when trying to work through a homework problem. She remembers how he'd show her how to answer a question or spell out a word or write out an English assignment, how she'd help him through math equations or science homework. She remembers being at 6th grade camp for her first night away from home; Connor, being a grade ahead, instead stayed on the phone with her all night until she fell asleep, whispering secrets to each other and quietly giggling through the cabin leader telling her to go to sleep. She remembers never liking to sleep in her own bed alone, instead sneaking into Connor's bedroom long after dark and watching the stars through his window until their eyelids closed, succumbing to sleep.

She remembers the first time she ever had to lock her bedroom door.

She doesn't know where it all went wrong. It seemed like one moment he was the same carefree, overprotective, happy-go-lucky brother he'd always been, and the next he'd been replaced with a hostile teenage impostor, scowling in her direction with every passing, losing his cool at the drop of a hat, chasing after her while screaming death threats at the top of his lungs, pounding on her bedroom door as soon as she's able to duck behind it and close it, heart racing as she braces her body against the unlocked door. She'd learned quickly after that.

There has to be a _reason_ , she keeps telling herself. _Something_ had to have happened, there has to be _something_ responsible for turning Connor from a loving, happy kid into what he is now.

And yet, she can't help but think, what if this is just _Connor?_ What if this is who he was all along? What if this is just where the pieces were meant to fall? Maybe their early years were just a fluke, an error, a mistake that could be chalked up to childlike innocence and parental influence.

Maybe it wasn't meant to be.

She glances back up at the bed, gaze falling to black fingertips again. It may have been normal for them to scream abuse at each other when they fought, but never, not once, did he ever lay a hand on her. Trying to break down her bedroom door, screaming about how he's going to kill her once he manages to get ahold of her, had become daily routine to her, and probably to them both, but whether it was due to her own actions or him holding himself back, he never followed through with it. He wouldn't apologize when next they saw each other, on the way to school or sitting quietly at the dining room table or walking through the halls, uncharacteristically silent. But he never, ever struck her.

But, maybe it would have been easier if he had. Maybe it would be easier if she could look at him and feel nothing but hatred and scorn, regarding him like she would a bully at school. Maybe it would be easier if she could say _I don't care_ and really mean it this time.

Her gaze travels up to his face again, taking in the way his eyelashes rest softly against his cheeks, his eyebrows uncreased and his mouth a neutral line rather than a hard frown or bared teeth. It's hard to decipher the expression with how much he looks like shit, but she's so used to seeing him scowling or yelling in fury that she's sort of forgotten he can carry other emotions. Disregarding his sickly appearance and all the machines hooked up to him, he looks almost... sort of... _peaceful_.

She squeezes her eyes shut, digging her nails into her thighs to try and ground herself. She can't let her guard fall, not now and certainly not ever. The Connor she remembers as a kid is gone, dead and buried, if he ever did exist as anything more than just a figment of her imagination, if the Connor she knew wasn't just the idealized version of him she'd kept alive in her head. But whichever way she looks at it, she has to just get used to it.

  


All at once, she's shaken out of her thoughts by a nurse peeking her head into the room, telling the family that visiting hours are over. She confirms the time looking down at the watch on her wrist, not realizing so much time had passed; it feels like they only just got here, like they only just sat down next to Connor's bed. Larry is first to rise from his chair, looking almost relieved; she's next, and her mom slowly rises last, reluctant to leave the bedside, gazing longingly even as she stands up and readies herself to leave. The nurse, ever patient for what must be a hectic, taxing work schedule, waits until Cynthia is up and on her way to the door before leading them out of the room.

Though they're once again surrounded by the noisy hustle and bustle of the normal hospital environment, the walk down the hall feels quiet, devoid of any conversation. They check out at the main desk, then they're out the doors, getting into the car, everyone minus one. It feels strange, different this time around, glancing at the empty seat next to her. Different, but inarguably familiar; after all, it's not like Connor likes to tag along on car rides anymore. No, not in a long time; maybe even a lifetime ago. But something's changed, something's changed since they found Connor unconscious in his room, and it's the second time he's tried anything but the first time it's been this serious; no doubt he would have succeeded, had he been left alone a little longer. For better or for worse, everything feels different now.

In such a short time, Connor's managed to turn their lives completely upside down. In the wake of the subsequent chaos, it feels like all she's done since is try to scramble for a purchase, searching for something to hold onto when it feels like everything else around her is falling apart.


	2. i know since we've grown, we ache for these memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two is finally here! Warnings for mention of Connor's attempt and some yelling/arguing; otherwise, I hope everyone reading enjoys!
> 
> Chapter title is from [Next To Me by Sleeping At Last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=564xDWyxmD8).

They go nearly every day.

It becomes a routine for the family. Almost every evening, after she's home from school, as soon as her father steps back over the threshold of their front door, it's back to the car, buckling herself into a seat and longing for the day to just be _over_. Readying herself for another day of staring at a comatose teen who's starting to feel more like a stranger with each conflicting thought that fights its way to the center of her mind, like her own head is at war with itself.

It's too much. She just wants to forget, and yet every visit just paints the situation clearer in her head. She's stuck in a cycle of feeling too much and too little all at once, a cycle that leaves her head reeling; as such, since Connor's attempt, every day at the hospital meets a steadily diminishing bottle of ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet. It's all she can do to just try to function normally at this point, really.

"Zoe!"

She's shocked out of her own head by the voice calling from downstairs, undoubtedly her mother's. Filing away whatever current thoughts swirling in her head for later, she swings her legs over the side of her bed and heads downstairs.

"Zoe, it's time to—" She's cut off when she takes notice of Zoe on the landing.

"I'm right here," she grumbles, rolling her eyes. Another day at the hospital; lovely.

If Cynthia notices, she doesn't say anything, instead offering a fleeting smile. "Your father's just getting home from work, so make sure you're ready," she says, picking up her purse while she talks.

Zoe sighs. "Remind me _why_ we bother going again? I mean, what's the point? It's not like he _knows_ we're there. You might as well be talking to a brick wall."

"Zoe!" her mother bristles, followed by a deep inhale as she tries to collect herself. "Zoe, you—"

"No, I'm _serious_ , mom! Why are we going there _every day?_ Sitting in the same room and staring at him isn't going to make him wake up any faster, or at all." She crosses her arms over her chest, pointedly looking Cynthia dead in the eye.

Her mother scoffs. "Why are you being so _negative?_ "

"I'm being _realistic_. You should try it sometime."

Cynthia closes her eyes briefly, ignoring the obvious jab, taking another deep breath before opening them again. "I know you're frustrated and upset, Zoe. We're all feeling conflicting emotions right now, but snapping at each other isn't the solution. The doctors say that he might still be able to hear us like this, and even if it doesn't help him, it's the thought that counts." Her exasperation melts away as she rests a hand on Zoe's shoulder, squeezing slightly and smiling bittersweetly. "I'm sure your brother would appreciate the gesture."

"I'm pretty sure Connor isn't _capable_ of appreciation," Zoe mutters as she shrugs off the hand, just loud enough that her mom can hear. Tuning out her mother's protests, she slips away, heading for the front door. She brushes past Larry, who's just walking in, as she exits, begrudgingly getting into the car and buckling her seat. Try as she might, she knows she'll be forced to go one way or another anyway, so it's better that she goes willingly than be blackmailed with the threat of punishment.

Her mother climbs into the driver's seat a few minutes later, looking emotionally ruffled but holding steadfast. As always, Larry is the last in the car, looking like he'd rather have his teeth pulled than do this for what feels like the hundredth time. And, well, she can't blame him; it's not like she wants to go, either. But Connor is his _son_ ; one would think he'd show a little more emotion about the whole situation. Unlike him, Cynthia is a different topic entirely; to be honest, if Zoe didn't already know her mother tends to come off a bit strong, she'd be worried that she was faking the whole ordeal.

Cynthia rests her hands on the steering wheel and takes in a deep breath. "This is going to be a good trip," she says, in a way that leaves Zoe uncertain as to whether she's talking to them or saying the mantra out loud to herself. "This is _going_ to be a good trip; we are on our way to visit Connor, and there will be _no_ arguing or fighting, because he's in the hospital and if _we're_ all falling apart, we won't be there for him, and he won't get better."

"Cynthia, you _know_ that's unrealistic—"

Cynthia whips around in her seat to face Larry. "Can I not have _this one thing,_ Larry? Is it wrong for me to _hope?_ He's in the hospital because of _us!_ " Her voice breaks at the end, and she takes a moment to breathe, rubbing the wetness from her eyes with her fingertips. "He's there because of _us_ , Larry. We _failed_ him. We have to do _something_ , _something_ has to change. This isn't fair to him _or_ our family."

Now it's Larry who pauses, frustrated. "Cynthia, we've _tried_ to help him, but what can we do if he refuses help?"

"He was getting better! You can't expect him to just... _stop!_ Just because he wasn't progressing as fast as you would have liked doesn't mean he wasn't _trying!_

"That money was going _straight down the drain!_ He was going to his sessions fine, then coming home and lighting a bowl like _nothing_ had happened, like nothing they were saying _mattered_ to him! Either his skull was too thick, or he didn't _care!_ "

"Oh, you _know_ Connor!" she mocks in a moment of desperation and anger, her expression morphing to heartache and distress once more. "Why would he go if he didn't care?"

Larry scoffs. "Because we had to _make_ him go! If we had relented, he would have skipped every last session in favor of smoking up the house or taking other drugs!" He brings his fist down on the center console, hard enough that Zoe's surprised it doesn't crack. "We tried _everything_ we _could_ , Cynthia! When will you see that there's _nothing_ we can do? There's no _fixing_ delinquents like Connor!"

"And it's because of thinking like _that_ that _he tried to KILL HIMSELF!_ " Cynthia all but screams, tears once again collecting in her eyes. She turns away, unable to hold back as the dam finally crumbles. Zoe has to look away as well; as upset as she is with her parents right now, she's not cold-hearted enough that seeing her mother break down and hearing her cry in the front seat doesn't elicit a little bit of discomfort.

"Can we just please _go?_ " she asks, strangely desperate to end the fight that's started between the two; desperate enough, apparently, that she'll willingly go to the hospital if it'll make everything else stop. "Either than, or I'm getting out of the car."

Cynthia's grief seems to relent some as she takes notice of Zoe in the backseat, taking several deep breaths before responding. "No, no, it's okay, we'll go. Everything is going to be fine." It sounds like the reassurance is more for herself than for Zoe, but she doesn't say anything.

Cynthia turns the key in the ignition, turning on the car and pulling out of the driveway, and Zoe can't help but hope that things will calm down once they reach the hospital. After all, the way their lives are, with her parents' marriage in shambles and on the verge of divorce, and with her and Connor constantly at each other's throats, she's not sure how much more this family can take before something gives.

 _...Well, something else,_ she thinks, turning her head to look out the window.

  


* * *

  


It's the same thing as always when they pull up in the hospital parking lot; the family of ~~four~~ three gets out of the car, they walk in through the front doors of the hospital, get signed in, and then they're led to Connor's room by whatever nurse is on duty. It's the same drill, down to the very seat she sits in at the foot of his bed, feeling uncertain as to whether she's trying to get away from her parents, from Connor, or from this whole situation all together. Whether she hates him or not, it's admittedly kind of hard to stare at the same motionless body, with the same greasy hair and pale skin and chipped fingernail polish, hooked up to at least two different machines, and not find it a little difficult to bear.

She doesn't know how to feel. She hasn't known how to feel since they found Connor in his room, half alive. She just... wishes the old Connor was back, that Connor would wake up and be back to being carefree and happy and loving and fun, like he used to be. She wishes that someone would pinch her skin and she'd suddenly wake up in bed, finding that the past few years were only a nightmare. A horrible, painfully vivid nightmare. But realistically, she knows that's impossible. She knows that the old Connor is dead, and more than anything now, she finds a part of herself just wishing things were back to the semblance of normal she's come to know. At least then, she'd know what to expect, what to think, what to feel.

"I need some air," Zoe mumbles, getting up from her chair, ignoring the fact that it's probably only been ten minutes since they came in. Her mother gazes at her understandably, though, but the pity in her expression only serves to piss her off. She's not this sad girl whose brother is in ICU; she could care less about Connor and his whereabouts, and she sure as hell isn't going to play the part of some depressed sister for someone who did nothing but put her down and make her life hell for the past few years. Someone she barely knew.

Shutting the door behind her, she's faced with a bustling hallway, nurses walking up and down the hall, contrasting with the quiet hospital room she'd just left. It occurs to her only now that she doesn't actually know what she came out here to do; she wanted to get away, from the room and from her parents and from this _mess_ , but she didn't plan any farther than that.

There's a bench just outside the room to her left, so she scoots over, taking a seat. The metal bench isn't much better than the chairs inside, and paired with the noise out here she cal feel her thoughts getting even more jumbled up and lost in her head, but she doesn't move. She finds herself not _wanting_ to move. It's busy out here, and the noise is probably going to give her a headache soon, but it's like a reprieve from her own inner turmoil, a brief distraction from the chaos. It's... kind of nice. Sad as it is, it's the closest thing she's gotten to peace and quiet since this all happened; she finds herself not wanting it to end, not wanting to leave.

And, with that, she leans her head back, closes her eyes, and lets the noise take over.

  


* * *

  


Zoe's not really sure at first what wakes her; disoriented, she drags her gaze around the darkened room before she spots the time on her alarm clock, reading _12:34pm_. She watches the clock turn 12:35, then 12:36; she's just about to turn over and try to go back to sleep when she recognizes what originally startled her awake.

The sound is too muffled to make out any words, but the unmistakable voices of Cynthia and Larry Murphy drift up the stairs, the volume just high enough to reach her room. Rubbing her eyes tiredly, she slips over the edge of the bed, toes on her slippers, and finds herself in the hall, clutching her old childhood stuffed tiger to her chest, before she realizes what she's doing.

She glances at Connor's closed bedroom door, undoubtedly the destination of her sleep-deprived brain, and shivers at the sudden chill that comes over her. She hasn't been inside his room since they were kids, and as silly as it is, the thought of going inside without his permission feels like sneaking into the cave of a sleeping bear, foreboding and dangerous.

She almost knocks softly at the door, but catches herself in time, fist raised to the wood, mentally chastising herself. She turns the doorknob, nearly expecting Connor to be inside, laying on his bed with his headset over his ears, blasting his usual music— but, of course, it's dark and empty. The floor creaks as she steps inside, the muted lilac-grey walls seeming dull and ashen in the scarce moonlight streaming in through the window, just managing to illuminate the path to his bed. She looks down, and the dark spot she can see at her feet makes her shiver again.

There's not a lot of decoration in his room, as would be expected of a regular teenage boy; then again, there's really nothing "ordinary" about Connor, so she doesn't know why she would expect otherwise. His bed, a dresser, a nightstand, a small bookshelf, a simple floor lamp in one corner, and a door leading to his closet are all that exist in the room. Almost every surface is bare, save for a stray book or old action figure or note that their mother left, not a trace of life in the room, and even the floor is just about barren of dirty clothing and papers and whatever else may be present in the dim lighting. (She swears lightly as she almost trips over his messenger bag just then.) It's clearly not abandoned, but it doesn't feel lived in at all; the only explanation she can come up with is that he doesn't feel at home here. _I guess that's one thing we can agree on_ , she thinks bitterly.

She edges around the stain in the carpet as she makes her way cautiously toward the bed, still on edge despite the absence of what her body is clearly perceiving as danger. It might be her imagination, but as she sinks into the soft mattress, she notices the muffled voices of her parents seem to have dimmed some, the obvious argument blending into background noise.

Looking out the window at the inky sky, she can almost imagine she's travelled back in time to when she was a kid, some nightmare or other having driven her to seek the comfort of her big brother. She can imagine that they're looking at the stars together pointing out constellations and making up their own clusters, imagining different planets and galaxies, picturing their own ideal worlds beyond the bay windowsill, whispering to each other until they each taper off into sleep, peaceful. The only thing that's missing now is a warm divot in the bed next to her, a voice in her ear telling her that it's going to be alright, that whatever bad things come to her in the waking world or her dreams, he'll protect her from them.

It's no wonder she misses it.

But, who wouldn't? Any sensible person would take the old Connor over this ugly new version. Any person in their right mind would choose the good over the bad, the old over the new, the easy over the hard, the better over the worse. But it seems so unfamiliar now, after living with this new Connor, that she's not sure how she feels anymore.

All the same, she allows herself to become lost in her daydreams, pretending the old Connor never left, even if just for a few seconds. Her parents' voices fade away as she pictures him in the bed next to her, laying in content silence, the radio he'd turned on by the bedside playing just loud enough to drown out the noise downstairs. She rolls, stuffed tiger still held close to her chest, and tells herself it's enough, even if it's not, even thought she _knows_ not, even as she feels herself longing for the real thing, as if Connor coming back to them could ever exist as more than just a hopeless fantasy. For now, in the moment, in the midst of the pain and anger and fear and confusion and heartbreak and _everything_... it _has_ to be enough.


End file.
